Holidays, Beetles, Bottom-users and My Eye

Blimey - I'm glad that the end of May Bank Holiday is well and truly over and the tourists have buggered off back to their council-estates in Leeds and Manchester - I have never had to work so hard in my life. I did a whole THREE hours in the bar on Saturday and another FOUR on Sunday. On Monday I did another THREE!! This is all because Marl has been under the weather since her return from the UK. She says she was bitten by the Black Death Beetle when she was having a sponsored-sleep for charity and told David that they had to stitch one of her buttocks back on after it fell off due to the toxin. He doesn't believe her, but I think it could be true because she hasn't been able to sit down since she came back and won't show her arse in the bar like she usually does...

The brown stuff (and this time I don't mean Bovril or Marmite) really hit the fan when Marl took me to task over my deal with the other bar-owner that I told you about. To be fair, she was not too harsh with me (probably on account of her sore arse) and I have been told by the hospital that my retina will likely re-attach itself sometime later in the year...

I have had a couple of dozen emails from men called Nigel, Keith, Russell, Marcus, Troy, Adrian and Blair to say that not all camp gay-like airline-dressing-girly-singing men from England are actually poofs. Whilst I respect the views of those good people who sent the emails, please be aware that I, and the whole of the rest of the world without exception do truly believe that 'men' who dress up as airline stewards and ponce about wiggling their hips whilst singing a song about 'sucking' and 'nuts' on Eurovision or any other noncy-arsed TV show are indeed as queer as an arse-fest organised by Liberace's chiffon-wearing ghost and attended by all of Elton John's bottom-worshipping friends, fifty-thousand pairs of Freddy Mercury's silver panties and every Village People lookalike poofter band that ever minced its way out of the dark rooms of San Francisco, Amsterdam, Brighton or Nottingham whilst wearing gold lamé and sequin-studded cod-pieces...

National Pride, International Chicanery and the Dutch

Marl left me strict instructions for the shopping whilst she's away. We have this Spanish supermarket round the corner from the apartment, and she told me NOT to use it because it's full of Spanish food. She told me that I should only shop at the English shop, about a kilometer away. She said that I should buy the following : Black Pudding (a negro delicacy of the industrial North of England), Haslet (a crushed and boiled meat delicacy of the farmlands of east England), Jellied Eels (a jellied snake delicacy of the south of England) and Welsh Lamb (a delicacy of the west of England). By buying this variation, Marl insists that we will be keeping to the true international spirit of all us expats in Spain...

Speaking of internationalism... what about Eurovision then...! Imagine that little foreign country winning the English Eurovision Song Contest! I didn't even know that Johnny Foreigner was able to watch it. I thought that they may have been able to listen to it on their English-made clockwork radios, but I can't believe that they are actually allowed to enter it. Back in my day before Korea, the Eurovision was always won by the English. It was staged in the village hall at Spalding in Lincolnshire, and broadcast around the neighbourhood by means of Mr Blenkinsop the radio repair-man's unique and thoroughly modern transmission equipment.

Old man Blenkinsop used to rig up this antenna contraption out of a Ford Model 'A' windscreen wiper, a galvanised pail, a broom handle, a bog brush, some urine and a length of that black cloth electrical insulating tape that that they don't make anymore 'cos it never stuck to anything. He would film the contest live using some old ciné-camera his son looted in Dortmund during the war, and by means of the aerial the signal was beamed all the way next door to Mrs Gedney's parlour, where the whole of the town would be crammed-in to wait excitedly for England to be declared the winner.

It's all different nowadays I believe. Apparently last Saturday, about 50 foreign types were allowed into the Albert Hall to watch a dozen or so foreign bands compete for our trophy. I have been told by a Spanish woman who lives in an apartment above the shop where I buy my smokes, that England lost the contest because our song was something to do with some dirty homosexual people queering it up dressed as airline stewards and going on about nuts and sucking things. This is surely filthy disgusting lies!! The Spanish woman obviously doesn't know that English people have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to queers, pooves, shirt-lifters, bum-bandits, Friends of Dorothy and those who tread the other path! Besides, our English morality will never allow the country to advertise any kind of bottom-teasing antics openly. No! The Spanish woman must be mixing us up with the Dutch...